


Illuminate

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, sparkplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, we don't see the light, but that's okay. Set early on in G1, within a couple episodes of their waking on the Ark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illuminate

**Author's Note:**

> Fic was inspired by "Crash and Burn," by Savage Garden.

  
“What do you see?”  
  
Optimus shifts, stirring out of his contemplative state with a creak of gears. “What do you mean?”   
  
Beside him, Wheeljack tilts his head back, searching with his optics. Though his scanners have already told him all he needs to know.   
  
“This is hardly the first time I've found you staring into some distant galaxy, Prime.”   
  
His mouthplates twitch behind his battle mask. “Wheeljack...”  
  
“Sorry.” The engineer lifts his shoulders, an approximation of a shrug. He's picked up on human habits quickly enough. They all have. “Old programs and such. Hard to break.” He tilts his head. “Optimus, what is it you're seeing? Or does sight have nothing to it?”   
  
Optimus cycles his vents a few times before exhaling harshly. He too has learned from the humans.   
  
“You are right. I’m seeing nothing with my optics. My thoughts are... inward.”   
  
Wheeljack leans closer, their energy fields overlapping, buzzing with warmth and familiarity. With a friendship eons old and something deeper that is more recent but no less powerful.   
  
“The Matrix?”   
  
Optimus shutters his optics. “It has not spoken to me in some time, old friend. Even before we left Cybertron on this ill-fated pursuit of the Decepticons.”   
  
His partner makes a noise of mutual disappointment and lowers himself down next to Optimus. He sits close enough that their fields brush and subsequently twine together.   
  
“It's not often you let yourself wallow in our circumstances, Optimus.”   
  
“Is it a bad thing?”   
  
Wheeljack nudges him with a shoulder, fingers tracing down a piece of thigh-plating. “Didn't say that. Sometimes even Primes need a moment to wallow. Though better to do it with company, ya think?”   
  
He unshutters his optics. “Mmm. Quite.” He turns to look at his partner, admiring the soft play of starlight over Wheeljack's newly acquired paintjob. Earth kibble suits him. “I can also think of much better pursuits than wallowing.”   
  
Wheeljack laughs, his vocal indicators flashing a warm glow. “Why, Optimus, are you propositioning me? What would the neighbors think?”   
  
Neighbors?   
  
Optimus looks around pointedly. Their position atop a high mesa, overlooking the pristine land below, doesn't leave much in the way of neighbors. Well, unless one counts the sad examples of evergreen shubbery and a few chittering insects.   
  
“Or worse yet, the 'bots at the Ark,” Wheeljack continues cheerfully. Though his actions belie his words as he hauls himself up, only to plop himself down in Optimus' lap. “They'd be scandalized.”   
  
Optimus chuckles, some of his dark mood easing away in the wake of Wheeljack's welcome humor. “I can think of quite a few who would be mollified with the offer of providing video footage.”   
  
Clever fingers trace over Optimus' windshields and grill. “And they don't believe me when I tell them you're as twisted as they come.”   
  
“Primes aren't supposed to be interested in such carnal matters,” Optimus responds with the tonalities of recitation. “We are holy symbols of all that is– Jack!”   
  
His partner chortles. Unrepentant as his hand buries itself in a hip joint, tugging on a cydraulic line and making Optimus lurch.   
  
“Holy symbol… Ha! You're a bot just like the rest of us.” Wheeljack leans closer, optics bright and burning. “And all you need is an overload or two to remember that.”   
  
“Just two?” Optimus teases.  
  
One hand pulls Wheeljack closer, their chestplates coming into sizzling contact. The inventor's plating is already warm, his spark a whirling pulse of energy behind layers of armor.   
  
“Or more,” Wheeljack sends back with a naughty lilt.   
  
Optimus feels the first rolling wave of spark energy wash over him, teasing at his own. His interfacing systems kick on with a pleased hum, absorbing the pulse and soaking it in. Optimus bathes in the strut-tingling sensation before responding in kind, three rapid-fire bursts of incisive desire. Wheeljack groans, a shudder racing visibly across his frame.   
  
“Someday, you're gonna tell me how you got so good at this,” he murmurs, optics flickering as he revs his engine.   
  
The vibrations carry across their bodies, making sensitive circuits tingle. Optimus teases under Wheeljack's hood, where plating is thinner, carrying more sensors.   
  
“Practice?”   
  
Another rolling wave of spark energy crashes over Optimus, making him gasp. He presses against Wheeljack, pulsing his spark hard and fast. Their energy fields tightly knit, the pleasure folding back into itself and expanding outward, trapping them both in a cocoon of delight.   
  
“Practice, my aft,” Wheeljack retorts with an amused flicker of his indicators. “Mech has all the wisdom of the Primes to call upon, and he taps into interfacing tricks.”   
  
Stuck somewhere between scandalized and hilarity at Wheeljack's irreverent humor, Optimus' only response is send out a long, slow wave of spark energy. It’s sure to wash over eager sensors and entice Wheeljack to initiate the spark exchange. He presses his helm against Wheeljack's, an intimate action comparable with the human's tendency to press their mouth components together, and feels a tingle between them.   
  
“Oh, whipping out the big guns, I see,” Wheeljack comments, his voice taking on a staticky edge, his spark eagerly responding. “But I've got skills of my own.”   
  
Pleasure spirals outward from Optimus' spark, the energies eagerly latching on to what Wheeljack is radiating. There's a moment where the two of them exchange several pulses before protocols kick in and the flow initiates naturally. Wheeljack's pleasure doubles back on Optimus', his frame overheating and forcing his fans to kick into a higher stage with an audible whirr.   
  
A shudder races down Optimus' back struts. He groans, grip tightening, pleasure building inside of him. Energy crackles over his plating, spark pulsing eagerly with Wheeljack's.   
  
“I'm immune to such trickery,” Optimus replies, and the familiar banter does much to chase away all thoughts of gloom. Leaving plenty of room to replace it with processor-shattering pleasure.   
  
His ventilations become more ragged as he draws Wheeljack closer, enjoying the way their frames press together, the static that leaps back and forth between the metal of their bodies. Even better is the pleasure of the merge, the way it pours over his frame and through his systems. Making his circuits tingle and his cooling fans roar.   
  
Wheeljack purrs at him. “But what if I reminded you of what few others know?” he asks, fingers diving into gaps in armor, latching onto sensitive cydraulic lines with a fierce tug. “Reminded you of the mech that was?”   
  
Optimus doesn't fight the cry of pleasure that slips from his vocalizer, falling sway to the enticing murmur of his partner's vocalizations. “What of it?”   
  
“I know your weaknesses, Optimus Prime,” Wheeljack says, tones a deep thrum that vibrate right through Optimus' plating and into his very spark.  
  
He trembles on the very cusp of release, energies whirling. “A Prime has no weaknesses.”   
  
Wheeljack's spark energy crashes over Optimus. “Ah, but you weren’t always a Prime, were you?” he says, indicators flashing a deep and arousing blue. “Orion Pax.”   
  
Overload pours through Optimus, a strange eroticism in hearing his original designation. He cries out, clutching Wheeljack to him, and with the distant edge of control, he sends out a heavy, rolling throb, sure to pull his partner into an overload with him. He isn’t disappointed. An array of colors lights up the night as Wheeljack twists in his arms, and static crawls over his frame. One overload feeds off the other, until the pleasure rattles Optimus' plating and his spark spits off excess energy within his spark chamber.   
  
Coming down from such a joyous high is almost a disappointment. The whirr of cooling fans echo in the still night. Wheeljack strokes softly down Optimus' arm as heat pours off their frames into the chillier air.   
  
Wheeljack suddenly chuckles.   
  
“Gets ya every time,” he murmurs, drawing back until he can look Optimus directly in the optics. “Do you want to be that mech again?”   
  
“Sometimes,” Optimus admits, his hands resting on Wheeljack's hips. “There are times when I still believe this is all some glitched memory ghost. I can't possibly be the mech who carries the Matrix.” His head bows, and he moves to touch his chestplate. “Arguably, I don't carry anything more than a dead relic.”   
  
Skilled fingers cover Optimus' own, black on black. “If that were true, then you must realize that we follow you not because of the Matrix but because of who you are. That should have more value then some half-forgotten trinket.”   
  
“Trinket?” Humor wars with melancholy. “Alpha Trion would suffer from spark failure if he heard you call it such a thing.”   
  
Wheeljack's indicators flash at him. “What the old mech doesn't know won't kill him.” He squeezes Optimus' hand before releasing him. “So… I have it on good authority that we have several more hours before anyone’s going to bother you with a status update or a piece of intel or a petty squabble. Want to make good use of it?”   
  
Well-used to Wheeljack's random segue between topics by this point, Optimus chuckles. “I think I have an overload or two left in me.”   
  
“Just two?” Wheeljack teases, and clever fingers get to exploring again. “Then I'd better make them count.”   
  
***


End file.
